Chapter Eleven
Magnus
W ell, fuck. Of course my mother is here.
I smile at her and then at pretty little Zoey.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I say smoothly.
Then before either she or my mother can speak, I grab the perfumed, Dior-clad Sinclair Queen and steer her away by the elbow.
“What are you doing here, Faye?”
My mother offers a cool smile, one guaranteed to set my temper boiling and she knows it. “Can’t a mother take an interest in her child’s fundraising? Two in one week. I’m very impressed. But Magnus, dear, you know it’s going to take more than a few charities to show you have heart. And who is that? Not your usual icy sex-pot types.”
“Can one be both ice and hot?”
“She looks human.”
“You’re a real laugh, ma.”
Her eyes narrow. “What are you up to? You have three weeks left.”
“I know exactly how much time I have and just leave Zoey out of it, okay?”
“Zoey.” My mother says the name like she’s tasting it. “She looks not only human, but someone who could have those earrings in minutes, if you get my drift.”
I do and I’m getting really pissed off. Actually, I’m pissed off at a lot. My mother for elbowing in and attempting her version of matchmaking. My dead father for this bullshit. Zoey for not selling like a good girl. And Zoey again, for making me like her and respect her.
Being at my own charity crap, even if the charity people don’t know it, is pathetic. It makes me look like I’m doing exactly what I’m doing.
“Look, Zoey—”
“Pretty name for a pretty woman.”
I resist the urge to swear. “Listen, leave her alone.” I take a breath. This shit is getting more complicated by the second. “She’s another charity. I’m helping her, but the catch is she doesn’t know who I am.”
My mother just looks at me, her expression giving nothing away. “You like her.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what.”
“Hmmm….”
People need to stop fucking saying that to me. “Catch is, she doesn’t know who I am and wouldn’t accept my help if she did.” The help being me saving her from a life of barely scraping by. Putting it like that. I’m a saint. “She doesn’t like our kind.”
“People?”
“Rich people.”
She’s about to say something, but changes her mind. “Good luck, Magnus, but this isn’t as easy as you think it is.”
And then, before I can ask her what the hell that means, she turns and breezes off.
I go to return to Zoey and honestly, I don’t want to be here anymore. Where the hell is she?
With a groan, I spot her. She’s talking to the staff, and I find myself watching her as she flits about, making small talk to different people, pointing at the art, and as I sidle up, she’s talking to someone who’s clearly old, old money and telling them how fabulous this all is and how the art is an absolute steal at three times the price and how it’s also not only helping the less fortunate but a tax write off.
And, against my will, I find myself smiling. Zoey is just so Zoey. She’s sweet, she’s smart, she’s pushy without people knowing it, and I’m pretty fucking sure she’s just made that old woman part with a huge amount of money.
When she turns, I go to her. “Have you donated all your money yet?”
Her cheeks turn pink and I make another calculation in my head to give her extra when I get her building. I can afford it.
“You know, I think I’m ready to go. Unless you want to introduce me to your mother?”
I take her to a nearby Mexican diner. Over tostadas and fries and a couple of Tecate beers—which aren’t bad for a non-beer drinker like me—I realize I’m having a good time.
Because of her.
Zoey.
She’s funny, disarming, and she’s been telling me colorful stories of growing up in her part of Bushwick.
Zoey dips a fry in hot sauce and frowns at me. “What?”
“Nothing at all. You. I like you, Zoey,” I say quietly.
“I like you.” And her smile is worth a million dollars. “So, what about you? What’s your story?”
Fuck, I need to come up with something that she’d like. Because even without all the subterfuge and my ulterior motive, she doesn’t want to hear about the rich kid who knows more about hard work and the ins and outs of board meetings, take overs, and running a business than he does about the playground and neighborhood hopscotch tournaments, like she had.
Because we went to boarding school, we learned about the business from the crib and fun was allotted on my father’s terms. My mother’s attempts weren’t met with much luck. Fun was making money. Beating out others. One upping and being the best, the brightest, and the strongest where it counts. Power. Money. More.
Fun now is the same, but I’ve added sex with the right women because the wrong ones waste time.
I went to Harvard, but not like so many moneyed people do. I got in, like my brothers, through hard work and on our own merit, but I’m also aware we had the safety net of money. Our father wouldn’t have saved us or boosted us up, but we had money. And Zoey…she went to college, owes tuition fees, even with a scholarship she got—she didn’t tell me this, I went over her finances. It was a good school, here in New York, but she attended parties, had a boyfriend, probably boyfriends, and wouldn’t see my world as something good.
Even without her experience with Bronn, I can’t ever seeing her wanting what I do.
Which is good. It’s fine. This is nothing more than a game, no matter how much I find myself liking her.
This is also business. And business is cutthroat. Dog eat dog and whatever other cliché you want to throw and have stick.
It’s why I’ll always be rich and Zoey will always scrape by.
She’s collateral damage and nothing more.
Pretty as she is.
“Magnus?”
“Sorry, just thinking about my gran.” I’m beginning to sound like the worst sort of sap out there. A mama’s boy, or in this case, grandmama’s boy.
Which, I remind myself, she loves.
“She’d like you,” I say.
“You know, I’m not trying to pry, but if your mom is here, can she help out?”
“My life isn’t like yours,” I say, skirting along the truth. “Mom’s not the kind of person to do that. And she’s heading out of town.”
“Why was she there? Did you invite her tonight?” She blushes hard when I take my time answering. “It’s not my business.”
Zoey takes a swallow of her beer.
“Hey, ask.” Because if I was the Magnus she likes, not the bastard she hates, then I’d tell her all about my mother. Who is actually a good person. “My parents split up when I was young and she drops in to see gran—dad’s mom—when she can. She told me about the event, actually. I thought she was heading out of town. Ready?”
She nods.
“I’ll walk you home.”
It’s not drizzling anymore as we make our way through the streets. People are about. Young thugs hang on street corners and drink from brown paper bags. But weirdly, many of them nod at Zoey.
I don’t even know why I’m saying weirdly. It’s Zoey. She’s no doubt made friends with the local serial killer.
I take her hand as we walk because Magnus Simpson would, and I like the feel of her fingers wrapped about mine, the warmth of her flowing into me. The sweetness of the connection.
At her door, I stop and before I can think, I cup her face with my free hand. “I had fun. Again.”
“That’s me. Fun.”
“You are, Zoey,” I say, suddenly meaning it. Her skin is soft, warm silk beneath my fingers and her eyes are big and vulnerable. “Don’t think that’s not something special, because it is. You’re smart and funny and sweet.”
“Are you quitting?”
She bites her lip, looking horrified, and I laugh. “No. I’m not that easy to get rid of. I’m just telling you the truth.”
“You’re a good friend a-and colleague.”
But she wants more. That’s there in her face. Most women I know would use that to play games, hide it if they thought it would get them what they wanted. But not Zoey. She wears her heart right there on her sleeve.
“We can be more,” I murmur, brushing the side of her mouth with mine.
She sighs so soft it’s like she’s running her fingers down my naked flesh to whisper over my cock. “I think that’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah, but sometimes they can be really, really good.”
I kiss her softly and she sways into me.
She tastes like spice and hops and the dark sweetness of her. “And sometimes it can be bad.”
Her mouth seeks mine and she kisses me. Before she can draw back, I let go of her hand and slide my arm about her waist, pulling her into me. “Maybe I like bad.”
She goes to answer and that’s when I kiss her properly, taking full advantage of her parted lips and they open more for me. I slide my tongue into the heat and wetness and hers meets mine.
Heaven. That’s the word. Heaven tinged with dark fantasy and X-rated images that tumble into me.
I kiss her deeply, pushing her hair from her face, and slanting my lips against hers, drinking down, and she melts, wrapping about me and the kiss takes on a life of its own. It has the sweetest claws that hook in such a way that makes my breath hitch, my cock hard and aching, and my heart beat fast.
She’s fire in the blood. A slow burn that can turn into an inferno if she’s treated right. And I want to treat her right.
I want to strip her down bare, down to the bone. I want to make her beg and moan and come so hard she’s mine.
I want—
It doesn’t matter what I want. I stop kissing her, coming back in to bite her lip, lick the spot and brush her mouth with mine before I untangle us.
If I don’t go, I’m not going to. Because I’m hot for her. Attracted. And I need to sort that, be in the right place. The attraction, that’s a game I can play. I can do that. Use that. All’s fair in the cutthroat world I live in. And Zoey…she’s completely delicious.
“I should go. I’ll see you Monday.”
“I…yes…I…” She stumbles back into her door, and before I can think, I follow, crowding into her and taking her mouth again.
This time it’s slow, I take my time. It’s a waltz of a kiss, a violin of tender passion infused melody, and I kiss her throat, her nose, her forehead.
“Goodnight, sweet Zoey.”
And then I step back, three times, until I’m at the curb. I have to. If I don’t, I’ll be in her bed or fucking her on the stairs. And that isn’t for tonight. I need to get my own shit together. I need to wait and play the game when the timing is perfect. I wait for her to unlock her door and go inside.
Zoey’s about to close the door when she says, “Magnus?”
“Yeah?”
“I’d love to meet your gran.”
Her door closes.
Welp, as the kids say, I’m going to have to find myself a gran.